2) Get on a long plane ride. Look out the window. Understand the immensity of our world. Understand your insignificance. Understand your absolute importance.
3) Press the send button. If you don’t say it now, you never will.
4) Do not sneer at happiness or roll your eyes at sadness. Be aware that apathy is not healthy.
5) You are more than the amount of people who want to have sex with you.
6) That pit in your stomach when he doesn’t text you back, it shouldn’t be there. No one should be able to control you like that.
7) Shopping is cathartic. Buy the shoes and deal with one-ply toilet paper for a while.
8) It will get better, but it will never be perfect. Learn to live through the small moments of happiness. When they disappear, remember they will resurface.
9) I promise that cookie will not change anything (except that it will make you smile).
10) Please, please, take care of yourself. You are everything to somebody. You are everything to your self. That alone is enough.
I. Two poets fall in love, and that’s when it gets ugly.
II. We go to dinner. You order the wine, red and burning, and it goes down like blood. We start with Shakespeare, move to Plath. You use alliteration to tell me that I’m ripping out your lungs with my metaphors, and I counteract with a hyperbole, say you’ve clogged my arteries with your similes. Don’t touch me with your dictionary, I want to say. Touch me with your hands.
III. The appetizers arrive. Bread as soft and brown as the flesh of your neck. Move to Emerson. Ask about God. Was Jesus this soft and brown? My Bible never told me about the strength in your apricot arms, your chestnut knuckles, this most divine truth resting under your skin. Move to Whitman. I envy the grass that licks your neck when you tumble down hills and watch the clouds. Touch me with your hands.
IV. The main course is a fawn’s heart seasoned with autumns and breaking. I eat more than you do. Move to Rilke. Write letters. When I tell you about the words, you say that you will die for ink and paper: I want you to break my neck. Move to Allen. Kiss the sunlight. Ask to live. Touch me with your hands.
V. Dessert is your mouth at three a.m., pulled over to the side of an empty, dark highway. Tell me you love me and it goes down like blood. Kiss my hip and it feels like dying. Don’t touch me with your dictionary. Touch me with your hands.